by Sarah Maine
“How dreadful.” Libby took a refilled glass from Rodri, and glanced up at him.
“We were all away at a wedding when it happened,” Laila continued, “so someone must have known the house was empty and seized their chance— It was valued at more than half a million!”
“And not insured—” said Libby, though its value lay not in pounds.
“And not insured,” echoed Rodri, handing a second glass to Laila. “Though if it had been, you’d have been suspected of nicking it yourselves.”
“We were! Or at least, Hector was,” Laila replied. “Have you forgotten? That stupid policeman suggested he’d had it stolen to order and taken out of the country to avoid an export license or some such nonsense. Hector was furious!”
“An outrageous slur,” agreed Rodri, but something in his tone sent a flicker across Libby’s mind and she glanced at him. Did he believe that was what had happened? This quarrel went deep.
She finished her wine and went up to bed as early as she felt she could, pleading fatigue, leaving them free to argue further if they so wished. At face value, Laila was avarice writ large, but who was in the wrong here? “Rodri sows,” Alice had said during the meal Libby had eaten with her and Maddy, “and Hector reaps.” But then again, was he not within his rights to do so?
By next morning the quarrel was far from played out, and when Libby left her bedroom and came out onto the landing she heard raised voices and retreated hastily. But curiosity got the better of her and she crept forward again to listen.
She could hear Rodri’s voice quite clearly. “. . . so, get him to ring me and tell me himself. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
“I’ve already said! I cannot reach him in Dubai. How dared you remove it. . . .” Laila spoke quickly, clearly in a high passion, and her next words were lost.
“Like I said, when I do hear from him, I’ll package it up and have it couriered down to whatever gallery—”
“No! Tell me where it is! It’s not yours to—”
“And it ain’t yours either, sweetie. It’s Hector’s.”
“What’s Hector’s is mine!”
“Yeah? Get him to tell me that.”
That suggestion could only further infuriate her, and it did. “I will call the police instead and report it stolen.”
“There’s the phone.”
“Oh yes, but you have everyone round here in your pocket, don’t you!”
His response was lost as a chair was scraped back on the flagged floor. Then Laila’s voice came again. “You seem to think your position here is secure—”
“Believe me, I never do.”
“—you live rent-free, you spend half your time on your own business—”
“Wrong.”
“—your children treat this house as if it was their own home.”
“It is, while I live here.”
“But that could change.”
“At Hector’s say-so, not yours.”
“I will speak to Hector.”
“Do that. And tell him I’d like to speak to him too.”
The woman hurled further fury at him, but the sound diminished as she went down the passage to the back door. Libby returned to her room and carefully pulled the door closed behind her, and through her open window she heard the sound of a car engine starting up and then fading as Lady Sturrock drove away.
She sat on the edge of her bed, rather ashamed of her eavesdropping. But had Rodri actually hidden the painting from her? How extraordinary.
When enough time had elapsed, she started downstairs and found him standing looking out of the kitchen window, his hands thrust into his pockets and his back to her. He turned and bid her a neutral good morning, looking like a man who had not slept. “Help yourself to whatever. No porridge, I’m afraid.”
After a moment he came away from the window and brought the teapot over to the table, filled two mugs, and sat down opposite her.
“There’s muesli somewhere. Or toast.”
“I’m fine.”
“Have something. I’ll make toast.” He got up again, restless as a caged animal and then stood silently over the toaster, then brought the plate over and pushed the butter towards her. “So what are your plans now?” he asked, and sat again.
There were dark rings round his eyes. “There’s nothing more I can do here, so I’ll get on my way.” She wanted to raise the question of the summer, as well as tell him about the cross, but this hardly seemed the time.
“It’s Friday.”
“Yes—”
“Have you things fixed for the weekend?”
“Not especially.”
“Then why don’t you stay?” There was nothing flirtatious in his manner, nothing other than a straightforward suggestion, and yet she was unsure how to respond. “Frankly, I could do with the company,” he continued, leaning back in his chair and contemplating her. “Even a small dose of my sister-in-law plunges me into the depths of gloom. I could go round to the girls and vent to them, but I’d rather not.” He paused. “I expect you heard the barney we had just now.”
“Yes.”
“Laila would liquidate the entire estate given half a chance and undo everything I’m trying to achieve. And besides, the Nasmyth was my father’s favourite.”
“The Nasmyth? I thought Hector was deluded?”
He smiled, an unrepentant smile, and a spark lit his eye. “Not on this occasion. My mother had it checked out, as Hector no doubt dimly remembered, and he must have told Laila.”
“So—?”
“So what? Hector has never told me he intended to sell it. If I’d let her take it away today, that’s what would have happened. Authentication, my arse. And it wouldn’t be the first time; a charming French ormolu clock went the same way a couple of years ago. So it’s in the game larder, up in the rafters, safe and sound.”
He got to his feet. “I don’t actually believe Hector knows about half the stuff she’s filched, so I’ve no scruples about thwarting her little plans, having no more conscience than she has. So will you stay the weekend?”
With a man with no conscience? She hesitated for a moment, then realised that she wanted to. “Yes. I will.”
He nodded his satisfaction. “Good.” He began clearing the breakfast things away while Libby ate her toast and swallowed her tea. Was the man never still for a moment?
“The things Laila said,” she began, watching him. “Those threats—”
“Laila specialises in threats.”
“Could she really cause trouble for you? And the boys?”
He shook his head. “Hector’ll not throw us out. He’s a decent bloke at heart. Idle, self-indulgent, drunk half the time, but decent. Drives me mad, but he stepped up to the mark when my wife was killed and offered us the chance to come back here. But he always gives in to Laila, anything for an easy life. Afghanistan wrecked him.” He paused. “And Laila knows my weak spot.”
“The boys?”
He nodded. “She’s none of her own, you see.”
“So you keep them out of her way?”
“Better all round.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But enough of Lady Macbeth. Come through and let me show you something.”
He led her across the hall into a room she’d not been in before. It too was part of the Victorian addition and matched the library in size and layout, bearing witness to the hand of the third baronet. A long dining table occupied the centre, its surface protected by a thick dark-green cloth over which were strewn books and papers. A dozen or so dining chairs were all wedged along one side, suggesting it was some time since this room had been used for gracious dining. An office-style swivel chair was drawn up on the other side in front of several box files with an empty mug beside them.
“I got this lot out after you were here last time. I’d not looked at them for years.” He pulled a box of papers towards him. “They’re more or less as Hector abandoned them, after his little burst of enthusiasm.” He began lifting papers from it
while Libby looked around her, taking in the room. Faded wallpaper covered the walls, depicting thistles and rowanberries like the plaster ceiling in the library, and below dado height was more wood panelling, lighter-hued here and more pleasing, and once again some of the windowpanes had scenes painted on them, repaired presumably after the ravages of football. “See what you make of these,” he said and unrolled a sheaf of papers, weighting the curling corners with books and the coffee mug.
Her interest was immediately aroused. The papers were dog-eared and tatty and covered with neat drawings in faded black ink complete with measurements. It was unmistakably the headland, with Odrhan’s cell at the end of it, and she leaned closer and saw little notes and sketches in the margins. “There was more headland in those days,” Rodri remarked, and she nodded, examining the exquisite elevation drawings of the cell with walls standing several courses high. It had been drawn from all four compass points, each aspect carefully labelled: View looking north. View looking west. View looking . . . and she paused at the view looking east. The entrance to the cell, and much of the centre was filled with the dome’s fallen blocks.
“Fantastic,” she said.
“Dated too.” He pointed to the corner, where the same neat hand had written May 12th 1890. O.D.
“Who was O.D?”
“Not a clue,” he replied, and she bent closer to read the tiny handwriting in the margin. Rodri passed her a hand lens.
She took it and read out loud: “Probably originally of domed form and corbelled construction in the manner of the Irish Monasteries of the Early Period. This would be consistent with the view currently held that this ruin is the small house described in the Legend as belonging to the hermit Odrhan.” She looked across at Rodri. “So O.D. was chasing the legend too.”
“Looks like it.” He removed the top drawing to reveal the next. It was a plan rather than an elevation, and depicted the cell as a rough oval; from the contours, Libby could see how much of the headland had eroded away in a century and a half. She picked up the hand lens again to read the tiny lettering. The same word was written in three separate places. Bones? Bones? Bones?
She looked up to see that Rodri was watching her. “Bones—” she said.
“Could be sheep bones, of course.”
“I don’t think he’d note sheep bones—”
“Nor do I.”
She bent to the drawing again, creeping over it with the hand lens as she searched for something more, but there were no further annotations other than rocks, turf, sand. And then her eye was caught by something, not a word but a symbol beside one of the Bones?. A tiny splayed-arm cross, and a further question mark beside it.
“Another grave, perhaps, eroding away at the time. What do you think?” Rodri asked.
Libby straightened, her brain working furiously. “And now long gone.”
He released the edge of the drawing and it rolled back up. “Well, open the other boxes. There’s more.”
Chapter 16
Odrhan
In their haste to get away, the men had left behind the basket in Odrhan’s cell, but he saw it as soon as he brought Ulla up from the shore. First he draped a sheepskin around her shivering form and built up the fire, then he tipped the contents of the basket onto the floor.
And he stood, consumed with fury at the sight of jewelled clasps ripped from books he had once known and cherished, silver dishes and bowls as well as the chalice from which he had taken the sacrament. And then the final insult, the gold cross once worn by the abbot himself, its central garnet the colour of blood.
He turned to Ulla. “Who stole these things?”
She looked back at him. “Erik and Harald. Last summer. But we brought away with us only what was Harald’s due, no more.”
“His due !” Odrhan raised his hand to strike her, but she did not flinch. “Lady— May God forgive him, for I cannot.”
Oliver
Alexander was before him to the headland next day, coat flung aside and sleeves rolled up, and had already moved several of the stones. “Good morning, Oliver!” the young man cried out as he approached. He had declared in the library last night that the formality of address was tiresome and unnecessary. “I’ve made a start.”
“So I see,” Oliver replied. At least he had managed to complete his drawing of Odrhan’s cell in its pristine state, from all four angles, before his companion had begun his work. Alick, as he had been told to call him, was clearly going to be enthusiastic rather than scientific in his approach. Oliver pulled out his notebook and wrote the date, ready to record further discoveries as they were made. Things looked set to move fast.
“We ought to record everything we—”
“Absolutely! But just for now I’m clearing the rubble off the top. We’ll make a pile of it over there.”
There was nothing to do but join in, so Oliver stripped off his own jacket, folded it, and placed it beside Alick’s discarded tweed. Then he too rolled up his sleeves and started moving the stones of the collapsed roof. Some of them were small and easily shifted, others required the two of them working together, and as the sun rose they began to sweat. But physical work made a pleasant change from the spiritual, and the silence between them was companionable. Once, when Alick paused to wipe his forearm across his brow, Oliver took the opportunity to do a quick sketch, pointing out that they had reached a portion of intact wall.
“You’re right,” said Alick.
“So we should leave that as it is, and I’ll draw it.”
“Righto. Lord, it’s thirsty work, ain’t it? I left word that someone was to bring us a drink halfway through the morning, and a bite to eat. Then we’ll have a break.” Oliver just had time to complete his sketch before Alick was back at work with an energy he could only admire.
“No treasure yet,” he remarked as they staggered under the weight of a larger stone.
Oliver smiled. “Were you hoping for some?”
“At least another gold cross or two.”
After dinner last night, Alick had cut short the ordeal by port with the gentlemen by filling two glasses and taking Oliver to the library, giving only the briefest apology to his father. Once there he had pulled the library ladder along its rails until it reached a shelf in the corner. While he ascended it, Oliver had looked around the magnificent room with its rich hues and dark panelling, and the shelves of leather-bound books. He ran his eye enviously along them, seeing works old and new which chartered the rise of civilised society, a collection he feared was wasted on the present baronet, and his heir. Perhaps Alick Sturrock would make better use of them.
“Aha! Here we are.” Alick had descended the ladder carrying a small carved wooden box, which he placed on the desk. A complex interlace pattern adorned the outside of it, and he lifted the lid, unwrapping an object from a covering of chamois, and passed it to Oliver. The fire had burned low and the room was still and cool, the silence almost reverential, and the metal warmed in his hand. “Splendid, isn’t it.”
“Quite remarkable.” Four equally splayed arms, each carefully decorated, came together in the centre where a single deep-red stone was set. Carefully he turned it over and examined the back and saw how it had been worn, on a thong or chain.
A thousand years ago Odrhan himself must have held what he was holding now, and Oliver marvelled at the thought, conscious of a great upwelling of emotion towards the man who shared his calling. It was a bond he sometimes felt out on the headland as daylight faded, an empathy with the man, a man of God, living out there, alone and more dedicated than he could ever hope to be.
“Just imagine. Odrhan himself might have worn it,” he said. “And then given it to Ulla, if your aunt is right about finding it with the bones.”
“That’s true! Or else it was Viking loot swiped from some monastery.” And as if in recognition of such dark deeds, the lamp on the desk had guttered and died, and the stone in the centre of the cross had seemed to dull.
Odrhan
Odrhan tried to explain to the woman about the holy books with their wondrous illuminations and beautiful lettering which proclaimed the word of God. He showed her the fragments of vellum which still adhered to the ravaged bindings, railing at the sinfulness of their destruction, and her finger slowly traced the curving lines of the designs as she listened to him, but she said nothing.
For days after Harald’s death she had hardly spoken nor eaten, subsisting only on water or a thin gruel that he coaxed her to eat. He feared for her. And though he did not pray for forgiveness for himself, he prayed for Ulla with a fervour that made him light-headed.
Then one day he came upon her sitting cross-legged in his cell threading the abbot’s cross onto a thin leather cord, and he grabbed it from her. “No! You shall not wear that. Not until you can truthfully say that you have repented. You promised me that you would give your soul to God!”
“And you promised that your prayers would save Harald. Yet Harald is dead.”
He had looked back at her, then turned away, unable to meet her eyes. “Then let us pray together for the salvation of his soul.”
She gave him an odd, narrow smile. “Do you imagine he would care for that, holy man?”
Oliver
Alick wiped a sleeve across his brow, and went to sit a moment on the pile of stones. “Rumour has it, you know, that my grandfather funded his building works at the house from the proceeds of treasure found under the church.”
“Under the church?”
“At the east end, when the chancel was being built, hard up against the wall. God’s providence, he called it, but it’s been kept pretty quiet, just in the family, you know, in case the church authorities made a claim. He bought off the minister with promises of a new church roof, and spent the rest on the house, and on his own ghastly tomb.”
